Eternally Yours
by Serendipithy
Summary: Even dreams can die young. PeterWendy.


**Title: **Eternally Yours

**Summary: **Even dreams can die young. PeterWendy.

**A/N:** Normally I wouldn't even think about writing in the Peter Pan fandom, but I was inspired to attempt one after rereading snappleducated's _Cinderella Syndrome_. I would categorize this as drama, romance, _and_ angst, but you know how FF doesn't let you put in more than two genres (for whatever reasons.)

A short, what-if story where Wendy decides to remain in Neverland.

* * *

><p>She watches him as time moves on in their never-aging bodies and wonders how he can continue to act so childish over so many years. It has been decades in her twelve year old body, and her mental maturity has long since surpassed her underdeveloped body. Her original wish to remain in Neverland was a curse disguised as a blessing, and Wendy realized that once she passed a night in Neverland, it was impossible for her to return (permanently) to London. No matter how much she longed to grow up—to <em>die <em>—she cannot, as she has learned that binding herself to the one known as Peter Pan has granted her unwanted immortality.

How does he cope, she wonders, with the natural urges that come with growing up?

Only five years after her arrival, she had felt the effects of the body she now despises. While her mind wished to commit unspeakable acts to a twelve year old body, her body could not satisfy these carnal urges. Her love for Peter has waned over the years as her flirtatious advances were rejected year after year, and her mind is now too old to wish for such pleasures.

How does a man so old—because she knows he's lived for hundreds of years—continue to act as one so young?

She watches him as he never fails to bring young and innocent—_unsuspecting_—children back without fail every night, inviting them into his world of childish splendor in the same manner she was once invited. However, these children were different. Unlike her, they express no heartfelt desire to remain as a child and so return to their homeland—where they belonged.

Where she used to belong.

Some nights, when she doesn't have the heart to watch children (something she once was), she sits on her favorite edge at the top of the clock tower. Reminiscing over her real family, the one she left behind, she wonders how John and Michael are doing. Were they still alive? She refuses to think about her parents, with her fading memories of their kind smiles, slight wrinkles, and graying hairs. (She tried, once, to remember their faces, twenty years after that fateful night, but everything was so blurred, she could barely make out the color of their eyes. For the first time in many years, she had cried.)

Wendy doesn't—hasn't ever—blamed Peter Pan for how her life has turned out.

She remembers the night of her arrival and the overflowing happiness she had felt on her dangerous adventure. She had felt liberated, defeating Captain Hook in her small body. She didn't need to grow up or sleep in her own room in the nursery. She had a new family, ones who understood her.

Now, it is she who doesn't understand them.

As bitter as she is, she doesn't have the heart to blame Peter. Rather, she blames herself, the twelve year old girl with the twelve year old body who didn't know any better, who didn't think growing up mattered...

Someone who was _afraid_ of growing up.

But now, she regrets and mourns and despairs in the home she has to call home.

How does he live, allowed to leave at night to bring children back, only to return the next day? How does he live, knowing the taste of freedom every night yet never actually being free?

Sometimes during the day, she asks these questions when Peter isn't busy bringing children to visit. She doesn't voice her exact thoughts because he is already reluctant to answer the vague questions she supplies.

But he always answers.

(Because he is Peter Pan and who is he to refuse Wendy, the girl who decided to stay with and love him?)

"_Peter?" she hesitantly ventures one day._

"_Yes, Wendy? What is it?"_

_He notices the hesitance, almost as if she's afraid to ask, and so he soothes her the only way a twelve year old knows how: by hugging her and taking her hand into his._

_Looking down, she squeezes his hand._

_He squeezes back._

"_Do you ever wish you could return to London?"_

_He stares blankly at her for a few moments before his eyes light up and his lips quirk into a soft smile._

"_Why Wendy, I return to London every night!"_

_She pushes down a frustrated moan. He didn't mean anything by it, after all. He is as clueless as he seemed._

"_No, not that Peter. I mean, do you ever wish you could live in London again… forever?"_

_His smile fades, and his eyes lose their luster. For a moment, his eyes appear to be dull and defeated, his mouth turned into a deep frown. But that moment passes, and he instead contemplates her question as seriously as he can. Wendy almost believes that the dull, defeated look on his face—one that surpasses his physical years—was a figment of her imagination. Almost._

"_No, I don't think I do. You can't and I can't, so why think about it now? Besides, adults are mean and have those jobs with other mean adults. Who would want to be an adult anyway?"_

I would_, she thinks, and has to bite her lip to keep from letting her thoughts escape._

_But the answer to her question gave insight into the world she had chosen, of how she couldn't escape. She had suspected it for years, as Peter never allowed her to visit London with him after she reached her mental twenties. He had seen the wistfulness as she gazed over the city at night. Now, whenever she asked, fear clouded his eyes before he would cheerfully respond, "But who would welcome the kids to Neverland if you came with me?"_

_Hearing the words _you can't, _however, was the confirmation she needed but didn't want._

_She felt trapped._

* * *

><p>His carefree and childish nature makes her question if his mind had ever grown up.<p>

She is not afraid of Peter—she never has and she never will be—but she is afraid of revealing her inner thoughts, the ones she shares with herself over his immaturity. She is afraid with how he will react, if they will get into a fight, a fight which will render her utterly alone without a companion to talk to, even if he is a boy who has acted twelve for hundreds of years.

Tonight, however, is different.

She is determined to bring out a mature Peter, a Peter who matches the years he has spent in Neverland.

She has grown sick and tired of having to deal with twelve year old Peter. She has convinced herself that if she must spend the rest of her life with Peter (and she _still_ doesn't mind this fact), she wishes for someone who can hold a mentally stimulating and intellectual conversation. She can't love him the way she used to, the way a man loves a woman. She can only love her the way a mother loves a child, and it tires her out.

Wendy hopes that tonight will change things for the better.

So when Peter brings the children to visit, she is there to meet and greet them, putting on a cheerful face to entertain their guests. Peter is surprised but elated by this change in her behavior. She hasn't been this enthusiastic with children since her thoughts slipped out and she had said she wanted children of her own.

They take the children on their usual wild adventure, meeting mermaids and fairies and the fantasy creatures one only _dreams _about. (Only, she thinks, this is more like a _nightmare_ for her.)

The night ends faster than usual, as her assistance allows the kids to travel faster through their world as she shows them secret hiding spots and tricks that she has learned in the past.

She feels a rush of adrenaline as she bids them goodbye. She doesn't even bother meeting Peter's eyes, her usual silent plea to go along with him, knowing that if she does, she won't have the courage to carry out her plans.

Standing there, she decides to hold their conversation in the privacy of their shared play room, the one she hasn't touched since she was—mentally—14. Decision made, she makes her way for said room in the clock tower.

Peter comes back with a light to his eyes and spring to his step and is again surprised when he finds his Wendy sitting in the middle of their play room. When she notices his presence, she pats the space beside her on the carpet.

She is smiling, but they do not reach her eyes.

He knows this means she is serious.

The bounce in her step is all but a dream as he slowly makes his way over beside her. Sitting down, he waits for her to talk.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"Peter…"

Looking over at her earnestly, he prompts, "What is it Wendy? Do you need something?"

"I want to be honest with each—I mean, I want to know more about you."

She couldn't back out of this now.

Confusion etched on his face, Peter answered hesitantly, not wanting to make her unhappy.

"Alright, what do you want to know about me? You already know everything about me, and I already know everything about you."

"Do you really? Do _I _really? You know more about me than I do about you. You know I have—_had_—two brothers named John and Michael. You know I used to live in London before I decided to live with you in Neverland. You know that I came here 78 years and 89 days ago—yes, I've been counting—and it's been 70 years and 143 days since I've seen or even heard about London."

Wendy sighed, running a hand through her light brown hair.

"There are so many questions I want to ask about you, but Peter, who are you really? Why don't you ever tell me about yourself?"

He stares at her blankly before looking down, hands fidgeting on his lap. The action annoys her for some inexplicable reason and so she uses a hand to stop his motions.

There are a few tense moments of silence.

Finally, Peter looks up again, all traces of seriousness gone.

"Why, Wendy, you do know about me! You know that my name is Peter Pan and my closest sibling is Tinker Bell. You know I come from Neverland and that I'm twelve years old. What else is there to know about me?"

She lets out a moan, both hands returning to her lap, clenched so tightly she can feel her fingernails breaking skin. If she were still in her teens, or maybe even her mid-twenties, she would have stood up and screamed and stomped, but she now knew better than that. Instead, she breathes heavily for a few moments to collect herself, her right hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose in obvious frustration, acting as if she were speaking to a child—which wasn't far from the truth at the moment.

"No Peter, you _didn't _come from Neverland and you _aren't_ twelve years old—"

Peter instinctively clapped his hands over his ears.

Seeing the action was the last straw. She would make him listen to her, to reason, to the truth, even if it was the only thing that got through to him. Grabbing both of his wrists, she yanks them away from his ears and raises her voice.

"—and Tinker Bell _isn't_ your sibling. You had a life before Neverland, and I want to know _**what it was**_! I want you to share your feelings with me, and I want to know if you miss your family. I want to know more about your father and your mother, and I want to _tell_ you about my own parents! Why can't you see that I'm fed up with living this lie in this sham of a wonderland? Wake up, Peter!"

His response was everything she didn't expect—and more, but it told her more than she had wished she knew.

The tantrum he throws when breaks free from her grasp is of epic proportions. He throws pillows, books, and all the toys he has collected over the years for the children before curling up into the corner of his grandiose play room. He rocks back and forth, hands covering his ears once again, repeating the same words over and over again like a mantra.

"_No, no, no, **NO**__… forget the past, forget the past, forget the past..."_

It is a haunting and startling scene.

And it all makes sense now—the pained looks, the hesitance, and how he refused to let her leave.

She realizes that while he had bound her to a curse with no escape, he was inexplicably bound to an even stronger curse that he refuses to acknowledge—that he had already forgotten.

She can't stay angry at him anymore. With a quiet gasp and hasty apology, she rushes over and pulls him into his arms, offering words of comfort that are meant to soothe a twelve year old boy.

For Peter had protected himself from the reality outside Neverland for hundreds of years, refusing to believe that he would never age, die, or leave.

For somehow, over his many years, he believed himself happy with being the twelve year old Peter Pan who never aged in the world of Neverland.

"Hush," she comforts, "After all, I'm eternally yours."

And with that said, a small part of her heart—the part that hopes for a worthwhile companionship that would make this eternal life bearable—dies.

* * *

><p>Feedback?<p> 


End file.
